Along the River Stir
by Drizabone-fiction
Summary: A story that follows four commanders through a campaign that won't be forgotten easily. Rated T for now will most likely go to M later.


Light, tinted green by the dark canopy, filtered dimly down into the gloomy underbrush of the deep woods that ran the length of the mighty river Stir. Nothing moved in the oppressive gloom, few sounds pervaded in the dark woods. The soft trill of some small nectar-gatherer echoed eerily through the still trees, making the already jumpy men who stalked through the underbrush even more tense. They were dressed in brown, earthy coloured leathers with green, cowled cloaks. In their left hands each carried a six-foot tall longbow, with a cloth-yard arrow already nocked to the string. The lead huntsman signalled the others with a hand gesture and their ranks tightened, moving together.

A hundred yards behind the Huntsmen, marching in good order, came the rest of the Stir River patrol under Captain Schrudager. The Captain stood at the head of his force in his full plate armour and gripping a large Halberd. With him marched his forty personal Halberdiers, known as "Schrudager's Wolves", following them came the "Dashing Blades", the thirty Swordsmen marching with a purpose and surety of their step that spoke of the confidence they held in themselves. Last came ten men seated on light horses each with a brace of pistols across their breastplates and hooked on the saddle, at their head rode an older man with a long beard and a moustache waxed into odd points, he had a sabre belted at his waist and a long brown coat hanging from his shoulders.

They'd been tracking the orcs for more than a week, the Deathjacks, the Huntsmen, had told the Captain they were confident they'd catch them within the next six days. The warband in question had sacked several villages and committed many atrocities upon the populations, under a large and belligerent Orc Boss named Grubnatz. The price on the orcs head was impressive to say the least, the Graf himself wanted the warband destroyed, offering six Imperials for each greenskin in the warband and twenty Imperials for Grubnatz. So Captain Schrudager had mobilized his patrol almost immediately. The promise of gold had made even the most reluctant of his troopers hungry for the hunt and as such they'd been moving at a forced march with little complaint.

The warband moved at a cracking pace, the Warboss in the lead. A hulking brute of an orc, standing at roughly seven and a half feet tall and at least three feet across the shoulders, his skin such a dark green to be almost black. His followers ran behind him, all eager for the next village, so much loot and violence in the last week had made them almost fanatically loyal to their leader, if fear of being killed hadn't already brutalized that into their tiny brains. The goblins skipped through the underbrush, struggling to keep up with their orcish masters.

The lead orc stopped raising one steel clad fist, "What's dat?" he asked in a voice coated in phlegm, giving a strange bubbling quality to it. The rest of his orcs pulling up around him raising their heads to listen and sniff the air. One of them grabbed a goblin that wore a set of spiked leather armour, and hurled him before the lead orc's feet. Grubnatz regarded the scrawny creature a moment before issuing his blunt orders, "Go figa out what dat noise is." The goblin quickly strung its bow and left with a small group of other pathetic green creatures and a squig or two. A large orc stepped closer to his boss.

"What do ya think it is boss?" the hulking brute asked, its beady eyes showing a glimmer of insight in a face that was otherwise, worryingly, devoid of thought. The warboss just backhanded him, with a ringing knuckle to the side of the head.

"Who told you to ask queshuns?"

Baron Ostkreig sat in the small, but ornate, chair which was his traditional place in the great hall of his keep listening to the drone of different diplomats from his cousin the Emperor Karl Franz. He waved a dismissing hand, "Tell my cousin I will consider his proposal." The diplomat bowed and withdrew, the Baron's master-at-arms replacing him.

"Well my lord, do I prepare to muster your army?" he asked with a stiff salute on his decorated, ceremonial breastplate.

"Aye, we won't need the full thing, maybe five companies to be sure but I doubt this upstart sea raider will bring much of a host to the battle field." The baron's age weary head sank lower, "I believe it is time for me to retire to my chambers, see to the muster Obercaptain." The baron informed his man before standing and heading out a back door that lead directly to his chambers.

The chamber was richly upholstered and had a large four poster canopied bed. The baron almost fell face first onto it in his weariness. "Is my lord quite alright?" a soft, feminine voice enquired, from where the beautiful Baroness sat with her embroidery.

"Yes my dear, just exhausted." The Baron answered, his wife rose from her chair and walked to him with a stately grace.

"Then as your wife I will help you to relax", and with quick and easy moves she removed his tunic and began to massage the older man's back and neck with a sensual touch.

The roaring of the storm drowned out almost all other sound on the ship _Wolfmaw. _Standing in the prow was the huge, immovable form of Lord Hufnir the self-proclaimed chosen of the gods. He was a seasoned sea-raider and as such he moved easily with the heaving deck of his ship, he was coated in furs and plates, his armour bearing the different marks of the gods, at his belt was the huge broadsword, _Drek'Nyen, _its glow a baleful blue fire. His face was marked with an ugly scar that ran from the corner of his jaw on the left side to just above his eye, a large red beard streamed down his chest and still held the remnants of his last meal, grisly little bits of an undefined meat sticking in the coarse hair. He roared into the face of the howling wind, "Stand fast chosen of the gods, the sea gods will not claim us this day!" he was met with a roar of ascent from those around him, men clad in furs with large axes belted to their waists or across their backs. Amongst them stood grim forms encased in steel, these were the true champions of the gods and Hufnir's greatest warriors. They carried weapons of varying description, from axes to maces to Broadswords and the occasional spear. One of them wore red-lacquered plate and he bore a large shield with a matching sword of equally titanic size.

"Lord Hufnir!" the hulking juggernaut roared, "A warrior of the Bearclaw's has spotted land to port side," the warrior paused, "He says he saw lights from watch fires." Hufnir grinned at this revelation, watch fires meant villages, and villages meant loot and slaughter in the name of the gods.

"Well done Kron, see to it the man is rewarded with an armlet, his Jarl is pleased." Hufnir answered simply.


End file.
